


Film Theory

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a very self-indulgent, almost completely shameless, mostly plotless wip pornfic, based on several conversations from tumblr and my inextinguishable consensual voyeurism kink. ♥ bunker fic ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

So Cas falls, and comes to live at the bunker, and for all it was worth worrying over, Dean really shouldn’t have bothered; Cas slips into their lives with little obtrusiveness, takes to being human with an ease which to Dean is surprising - albeit with an attitude, sometimes.

The problem mostly isn’t Cas’; it’s Dean’s.

The first time Cas comes into the kitchen for breakfast with his cock tenting his boxers, Dean manages not to react. He  _looks,_ sure, like you would at any oddity, the thick line of Cas pushing against cotton; Cas is bigger than he remembered – probably in part because he wasn’t hard that time Dean saw him naked – and moves as if it doesn’t bother him at all. He makes his coffee, sits opposite Dean at the table, and just… ignores it. And Dean, to the best of his ability, does too.  

Thing is, though, it isn’t just a one-off; it  _keeps happening._

Not every morning, but most; Cas comes in with the worst case of barely-clothed morning wood that Dean has ever seen, makes himself some coffee, and then talks to Dean and Sam over breakfast as if the table isn’t the only thing between them and his raging boner. Sam makes a lot of awkward coughing noises and gestures, but they utterly fail to indicate  _anything_ to Cas; either that, or he simply ignores them. Sam brings it up to Dean before Cas comes in, one morning.

“It’s rude, right?” Sam says, sounding somewhat unsure. Dean shrugs.

“If  _you_ did it, I guess I’d try to get you to stop,” he frowns. “Do you think he even knows what it  _means?”_

Sam rolls his eyes. “He’s not a kid _;_ of course he does. Are you going to talk to him, or should I?” he says, in a way that clearly means  _please talk to him;_ but Dean gets sweaty and uncomfortable whenever Cas has this morning-time  _problem,_ and he knows he wouldn’t make it through a conversation, especially if Cas had questions (god forbid).

So Sam apparently has this conversation, away from Dean’s ears, and Cas starts wearing a robe to breakfast, at least. Somehow, though, the concealment makes no difference. Dean feels as if some door has been opened, some passageway into another plane of existence, and he can’t stop fucking  _thinking_ about the potential that beneath his (often lopsidedly fastened) robe, Cas’ dick is hard; maybe from dreams, maybe just as one of those things. He wonders if Cas is willing to take care of the problem; if he even knows how; if Sam explained. With an attentiveness that probably isn’t all that secretive, Dean’s eyes track him in the morning; his legs, the span of his hips, his crotch.

It’s not that there’s anything particularly sexy about it – although, okay, Cas is  _packing_ – it’s just that this is a side he’s never seen of Cas before, a side with a sexuality, with a body that  _reacts._ He catches Dean’s eye over breakfast once, stopping Dean in his tracks, red-handed, and his gaze lingers a little too long, pausing them both as he gives Dean the once-over a little in return, eyes peeking over the rim of his coffee cup.

The tension builds, but just as quickly, it dissipates; Cas points to an article in the newspaper, slides it over the table, and asks Dean if it sounds like something of interest; Dean’s mind is drawn to other things.

But the staring doesn’t stop for him, the wondering, the image burned into his brain of Castiel’s sex, straining against his shorts. The portal is open now, another universe entered, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s even  _possible_ to go back.  He’s not even sure if he wants to. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i told you this was shameless.
> 
>  **EDIT:** my gorgeous attractive wonderful talented friend [Zee](http://brightfallenstars.tumblr.com) has drawn art for this chapter which is at the bottom!!! if you like it seriously check out the rest of [her art on tumblr](http://brightfallenstars.tumblr.com/tagged/my-supernatural-fanart), she is incredible! 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning; the art is DEFINITELY NSFW ♥**

 

Dean sometimes likes to take a shower late at night. It saves time in the morning, and usually after a day he’s too bloody and sweaty to consider lying in bed without at least a rinse; the rhythm comes to him pretty easily at the bunker, too, even though they’ve decided to take a break from the job whilst Cas is ‘acclimatising’. Dean likes it; he has his day, he showers in the night, the shower room dusk-lit and blue, water echoing.

 

He comes in one night after a late dinner, same as always; shucks his jeans, shirt and boxers in the shower room, leaving them piled on the pegs that run along one of the beige-tiled walls. Safe in the knowledge that Sam won’t come down this late at night, he walks naked from one end of the room to the other, albeit quickly, with shampoo and shower gel under his arm. He stands under one of the shower heads and draws the curtain around to cover himself. There are six or seven showerheads in the room (Dean’s never bothered to actually count) and they’re all in a row, separated above by boxlike curtain rails, allowing each occupant at least a modicum of privacy from their neighbour.

 

Privacy isn’t really an issue here, though; it’s late at night, and though Dean draws the curtain out of habit, he needn’t have; he’s alone.

 

He hums a little, turning the shower on, standing out of the spray to let it warm up. He’s not sure what kind of witchcraft (maybe  _literally)_ went into it, but the water pressure in this place really is fucking amazing. Dean’s used a lot of showers in his life, and if anything it’s taught him that a fierce rush of water from the head is nothing to sniff at; too many mornings he’s ended up hunched under a pathetic, rusty spray, fucking freezing cold.

 

So he likes it, this small indulgence; the warm water, the fact that he’s had enough time to figure out how the shower works – it’s different in every place he’s ever been to, and for some reason not  _one_ shower in a motel room works in any instinctive, simple way. It’s always turn the bath taps on first, or pull some drawstring or another, or switch the lights on in a specific sequence. More than once he’s figured out how to turn the fucking thing on, gotten a blast of water right in the face, then stood there freezing cold and naked trying to get the fucking thing going again for an hour.

 

He stands under the spray, lets it warm him up, messing with the taps to get the temperature just on the edge of too hot. He takes his time – maybe sings a little under his breath, so what, fuck you, no one can hear him down here anyway – and as he’s lathering shampoo into his hair, murmuring a couple of bars of  _misty mountain hop_ under his breath, he distinctly hears the shower room door open, then close again.

 

He freezes, thinking danger before anything else – he always does. He turns the water off; but nothing bursts through the curtain to attack him, nothing slithers around his knees and pulls him down. He waits, breath bated, listening to the sounds of footsteps, of someone padding around. The shower head next to him turns on with a hiss, and looking at the gap between the curtain and the floor, Dean can see someone’s hairy feet.

 

It’s Cas, of  _course,_ not some nameless monster, and though he’s relieved, he’s a little irked, too. Trust Cas to choose  _this time_ to have a shower, let alone take it right next to Dean, even though there’s at least five others to choose from. He bets – actually, he knows for definite – that Cas is one of those guys who chooses the urinal right next to yours, as well.

 

The shampoo starts to drip into his eyes; he shrugs, and turns his shower back on, and stands beneath it. Cas probably hasn’t even bothered to pull the curtain around himself, so Dean is glad he thought to; there’s a tiny gap between the wall and the curtain, between them, and Dean keeps seeing flashes of elbow and hand, as Cas messes with the shower controls.

 

He sluices the shampoo out of his hair, kneading his scalp, and tries not to let it bother him. Cas is weird; he’s got no sense of appropriateness, even  _less_ now that he’s human, and Dean has to give him a little leeway sometimes, that’s all; he doesn’t really know what’s appropriate and what isn’t.

 

He’s just thinking that very charitable thought when he hears, over the patter of the water, a hitch of breath.

 

He flushes all over, immediately. Stops stock still, beneath the water, letting it cascade over his forehead and into his eyes.

 

Cas  _can’t_ be doing what Dean thinks he might be doing. He  _can’t_ be. There’s a lack of appropriateness, and then there’s exhibitionism. Dean’s fairly sure jerking off in the shower so your roommate can hear crosses some line from one to the other.

 

He stands there silently for a moment, listening. It’s hard to hear anything over the water pounding the tiles, the whole place echoing; Dean could be hearing the sound of Cas fucking his fist, or it could just be the pipes overhead, the gurgle of the drains underfoot. He goes back to rinsing his hair, still feeling a little hot all over, and then that sense is renewed when he hears it  _again._

 

He can’t breathe for some reason; the curtains around him seem close and stifling, and Cas is  _definitely_ doing something beside him because Dean can hear him more now, a little louder, making soft, abortive moans like he doesn’t give a fuck if the whole city hears, let alone the poor guy in the stall next to him. Dean didn’t even know Cas jerked off, let alone that he knew how to do it well; from the sounds of him, he knows enough. Dean hears a soft, tacky noise; Cas’ feet moving against the floor; and then sees him, just a sliver of him, through the gap in the curtain. Cas is leaning against the wall, head tipped back. From this vantage all Dean can see is the thick dark hair at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder and back, pressed flat to the wall. He averts his eyes, washes his hair; ignores the slow, steady thump, Cas’ breathy, desperate noise.

 

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t spoken up yet; he’s fucking  _mortified,_ and he could at least try to save himself by reminding Cas about basic fucking decency; Cas  _must_ know he’s here, after all.

 

But the words won’t come, and instead he listens, hating himself; he lets the water run over his shoulders, down his back, and faces the wall. Cas is in his peripheral vision, anyway; Dean can see the muscles in his shoulder flex and tense as he moves his hand up and down.

 

Then, under the pretence of finishing his shower as quickly as possible, Dean bends down to pick up the shower gel from the floor. He glances to the side, and gets a full, unadulterated eyeful.

 

Cas has his eyes closed; he’s wet, from head to foot, and not only his dick but the whole of the lower half of his body is flushed bright red, thighs visibly trembling. His ass is pressed hard against the shower wall, and his throat undulates as he swallows, tugging on himself not hesitantly, not unsure, but as if he’s been doing it forever.

 

He pushes into his fist, legs braced, slightly apart; his heels face the shower wall, and his toes are clenched, curled against the floor. He’s got cords everywhere, muscle strong and wiry, standing out when he moves his arm, his hand; his hips move, pushing the rhythm further, harder, lips parted, water dripping from the showerhead onto his face.

 

Then he cracks his eyes open and his gaze slides immediately to Dean.

 

Dean straightens, shower gel clutched in his fist, and continues to stare.

 

It’s like Cas doesn’t even realise he’s there; or if he does, he doesn’t give a shit. His eyes fix on Dean’s face, flutter, and then he makes the loudest noise yet, fucking into his hand harder. His heels slip on the wet floor – Dean actually stumbles forward a little, ready to _catch him –_ but Cas’ hand leaves his dick and finds the taps on the wall, and pulls himself up again with ease. Without his hand sheathing it, Dean gets a look at his dick, unfettered; he can’t tell what’s precome and what’s water; how much of the way that Cas is wet is the shower or himself;  but he can tell that Cas is  _big,_ uncircumcised, thick. He reaches a hand out, blindly, and clutches for the taps on the wall, just as Cas did; but Dean isn’t about to fall.

 

Cas’ hand returns to himself, obviously close; his rhythm is off, hand moving faster, and though his eyes slip closed occasionally, he keeps his gaze fixed on Dean’s. He doesn’t say anything; just makes a harsh, desperate noise and opens his mouth wider and comes, wringing it out of himself, thighs shaking with the effort of continuing to keep himself upright. Distantly, Dean can feel his own cock, hanging heavy and hard between his legs, but he’s not even got enough presence of mind to be ashamed; he just stares at Cas, stroking himself through the aftershocks, closing his eyes as he slumps against the shower wall.

 

Dean moves back behind the safety of the curtain and lifts a hand to his own collarbone. He’s shaking; his skin is on fire. He hears Cas standing under the shower for another minute or so, then the soft, wet slap of his feet on the tiles as he crosses the room and gets a towel to dry off. The shower room door swings open and then shut again, pretty quickly after that, and Dean is left alone in there, still under the warm spray, staring at the wall in shock.

 

He leaves his cock alone, letting it go soft; turns the water a little colder, but not by much. He washes every part of himself with care; belly, armpits, legs and knees; but he’s unsteady when he finally leaves, minutes after Cas.

 

He dries himself off and then sits against the wall of the shower, beneath the pegs where his clothes hang, going over and over what just happened.

 

He’s in trouble, and he knows it. 

**art by[zee](http://brightfallenstars.tumblr.com): check her out on tumblr! **


	3. Chapter 3

“Move over,” Castiel hisses in his ear, and to his own dim, sleep addled brain’s surprise, he does.

The bed shifts as Castiel clambers in next to him; Dean, facing the opposite wall, can feel him but not see him. Cas is an awkward tangle of limbs at the best of times, mostly controlled in spirit but, post his fall, not in body. He elbows Dean in the spine, several times.

“What’re you doing?” Dean hisses, and Castiel doesn’t answer until he’s settled himself beneath the sheets, beside him.

“It’s cold in my room,” Castiel says in a stage-whisper, as if that explains anything at all; Dean refuses to turn over, and continues speaking to his pillow.

“So get another blanket. You can’t sleep here.”

Castiel makes a short, grumpy noise. “Why not?”

Dean sighs raggedly. Since the  _incident_ in the showers, he hasn’t looked Cas in the eye. He’s looked at other parts of him, sure; hasn’t been able to kick that particular habit; but he hasn’t met his gaze in about four days, and the effort is wearing. He’d thought he’d at least be safe from whatever the hell is going on in his own room; apparently not. “Because,” he says childishly. “Just  _because,_ Cas.”

Castiel makes another wilful, irritated sound. “I can’t sleep in my own bed.”

“Go bunk with Sam,” Dean says flippantly, then sincerely hopes Cas doesn’t take him literally. He says, quickly, “Sleep on the couch or something.”

“ _Dean,”_ Cas sounds exasperated, and Dean finally sits up to look at him. He looks tired; hair a mess, eyes half-lidded. But  _still._

“No. You’ve already-” he falters. If he talks about it, he’ll make it  _real._ “Don’t you think it crosses a line, Cas?”

“Please?”

If only because Dean doesn’t think he’s ever actually heard that word come out of Castiel’s mouth, his resolve wavers. “Okay,” he sighs, already regretting it. “Okay. Just – stay on your side.”

“Thankyou.”

Dean flops back down again and rolls so he’s facing away once more. “Whatever.”

He doesn’t sleep much, obviously. All he can hear is the rasp of Castiel’s deep breathing, all the muscles in his body tensed.

Eventually he drifts off though, slipping lightly into unconsciousness. When he wakes again the next morning, Castiel has, of course, reneged on his promise.

He wakes with a mouthful of Castiel’s hair, nose pressed against the back of his head, their bodies slotted, tangled together. At first, buried in the pitch-dark sheen, he doesn’t realise where he is.

He spits out the hair and pushes at Castiel’s head with his own forehead; he’s a dead weight against Dean’s front, slumped all over him, and of course Dean doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He’s too warm to push away, body solid and sure against Dean’s. Dean lies there, awake, in silence, and debates what to do.

He’s not sure what’s going to happen; doesn’t know what Castiel’s attentive gaze in the bathroom meant. From a human it’d be different, but Cas isn’t human; not  _really._ His unblinking gaze could have been judgemental, could have been cautious, without understanding. Dean is often confused as to how much Castiel knows and does not know; sure, he’s been around for thousands of years, but does he know gestures, emotions; the nuances of interaction, the significance of things? Does he knows what it means, really means, to have done what he did?

Some small part of Dean suspects that Castiel knows full well what he’s doing. He just doesn’t know  _why._

Castiel makes a small sound into the pillow, waking; Dean stiffens – is, shamefacedly, stiff in other ways, too – and is surprised when Castiel does nothing except extricate himself from Dean’s arms with a muted little yawn.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, turned away from Dean. He yawns again, wider. “I’m going to eat breakfast. Do you want anything?” he clambers from the bed as he talks; Dean watches him go, growing colder and colder the further he goes.

“No. No, I’m good,” he mumbles – Castiel turns around and looks down at him.

“Thankyou for letting me stay.”

“No problem,” Dean’s actually stammering a little. His hands flinch in the bedclothes, desperate to pull Castiel back in with him – for what, he doesn’t know. He’d half expected Castiel to roll him over, push against him, make something  _happen._ Castiel is always making things happen, in that sharp, obstinate way of his. That this is the exception is somehow incomprehensible to Dean.

“You, uh, sleep well?” he asks, pointlessly, and Castiel seems to realise the banality of the question.

“Very well,” he ventures, then says, “It was …nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, not sure what he’s doing. His elbows tingle, anticipatory, for no reason.

“I’m going to – go,” Castiel mutters, and Dean nods. “Shall I make you some coffee?”

“Yeah, please.”

And then he leaves, nonchalant. Dean doesn’t know if he feels like a cheap date or a successful criminal; either way, it’s uneasy.

He curls himself into a tight ball, and realises he can smell Cas on the sheets; Cas smells of nothing in particular; soft cotton, sometimes sweat.

The coffee will go cold, but he doesn’t really want to go out there, anyway. Part of him is strangely disappointed; he wonders if he really had entertained visions of Cas just making a  _move,_ rolling him over and rubbing against him like there was no tomorrow. Some small part of him had thought that this bed thing was a ploy, something to get the ball rolling; but it seems he was wrong.

Sheets cooling in the early air, he lies puzzled for a while, drifting in and out of slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

Shockingly, almost every night that week Castiel’s bed is ‘too cold’ to sleep in. When it’s not ‘too cold’ it smells wrong; when it doesn’t smell wrong, there’s a draught.

Dean can’t really get mad about it, though; he’s the one who peels back the covers and lets him stay.

Eventually, when Cas inevitably shuffles into his room at fuck-knows-what in the morning, Dean starts just waving him in and rolling over. He’s easy; it’s nice, in its way, however frustrating the mornings can be, waking up splayed in a heap with Castiel in his arms, or vice/versa, Cas’ morning wood pressing thick against his hip.

They’ve found a rhythm with that, too, though; Cas wakes up a little after Dean, pushes himself up onto his elbows, and looks at him for a long, considering moment. Dean’s breath stills in his chest; the air is always loose and warm and muggy, sheets tangled sweatily around their bodies, Cas’ leg always somehow insinuated between his own.

Cas stares at him, eyes half lidded, blinking sleep away. Dean stares back, trying not to move a muscle. The minute stretches on and on and on.

Then Cas belches softly or makes a horrible snorting noise or sniffs and scrubs at his nose with the heel of his hand, untangles himself from Dean, and rolls out of bed in search of food.

Then Dean lies there for a further ten minutes at least, trying to get his body back under his own control.

During the day they’re as normal as they ever were. They bicker, they yell; Sam desperately tries to avoid getting in the middle of their daily spats. Dean finds himself more and more irked by Cas’ little habits as time goes on; how he uses the same knife for peanut butter and regular butter, how he sticks the whole fucking thing in his mouth afterwards and drops it, wet, on the kitchen counter for Dean to accidentally put his elbow on, later. How he hogs the TV, how he  _still_ walks around half-naked on occasion, no matter how often he and Sam cough pointedly and make frantic, embarrassed mumbling noises about the importance of pants. Cas is, to put it mildly, the worst roommate. He leaves his hair in the drain, he has invaded Dean’s bed; he smells like linen and sweat and something warm that Dean can’t put his finger on, and now all his pillows stink of it, too. He is equal parts the best friend Dean has ever had, and the worst nuisance; Dean dreams of him at night, suffers through his  _cuddling,_ and then is so irritated by him all day that he can barely bear to look his way until nightfall – and even then, it’s a hardship.

He’s on the couch on a Saturday evening, eyes slipping closed in front of the TV, when Cas slides into the seat beside him, and nods at the whisky bottle lying slanted in his lap.

“Can I have some?” he’s wrapped in one of the old Men Of Letters robes, and his hair is still wet from the shower. His fingers must be slightly damp, still, because he leaves prints on the bottle when he reaches into Dean’s lap for it; Dean, despite himself, almost squirms away from embarrassment.

“Sure,” he replies, as carefully as he can. Cas has already taken the bottle, anyway; he unscrews the cap and takes a long pull on it, mouth fixed over the bottle’s head. Dean frowns, nose wrinkling. “I meant in a glass,” he says hopelessly, and then, “Do you have to be so gross all the time?”

Cas doesn’t dignify that with a response; selective hearing is, apparently, another thing that he has acquired since becoming human, along with a complete lack of shame. “What are you watching?”

Dean looks dully at the screen. He’s not sure, actually – he thinks it might besome kind of _CSI,_ but he has no idea which. “Some cop show.” He shrugs, and looks back at Castiel to see him taking another long drink. He snorts softly.

“You’re gonna regret that tomorrow, if you keep goin’.”

Cas eyes him derisively again, and passes him the bottle back. “Drink with me, then.”

“Won’t change your hangover.”

“No, but it might vindicate me if you’re suffering as well.”

That was a joke, Dean realises, slow through the haze that seems to appear whenever Cas is so close to him. He laughs, and nods, taking the bottle back from Cas by its neck.

He drinks from the place where Castiel was drinking, and tries not to think of second-hand kisses; the succubus a few years back. If there’s anything Cas is going to give him, it’s already under his skin. He says, when he takes the bottle away from his mouth, “D’you think you’ll be a lightweight now?”

“I’m not very heavy, for someone my size,” Castiel replies, guileless, and he does this less often, this tarzan, fish-out-of-water thing. Dean has found himself missing it.

“No, I mean, do you think you’ll get drunk easier without your mojo?”

Cas takes the bottle back from him and looks at it, considering. “I imagine so. I’m told, though, that tolerance is higher, the larger you are.”

Dean refrains from commenting on Castiel’s largeness, or lack thereof. He thinks with the whisky in the mix it’s probably not a great line of discussion. “You like it?” he opts for, instead, and Castiel looks pensive before he nods.

“It’s not entirely pleasant, but I like it. Does that make sense to you?” He giggles on the end of the sentence, and Dean turns to him in surprise.

Cas never  _flushed_ when he was an angel. Now, of course, he doesn’t flush – Dean has lost count of the number of times he’s yelled at Cas over the state he leaves the bathroom in – but his skin does, sweetly, high spots of colour rising to his cheeks. His neck is flushed too, and below the v-line of the robe Dean would imagine – can’t really help but imagine – that the situation is much the same. He’s smiling lazily, in a way he almost never does; Dean catches him sometimes, grinning into a pillow in his sleep, but he has never seen this expression on a conscious Castiel. The sight makes him laugh, as well.

“Man, you’re already gone! You  _are_ a lightweight!”

Castiel seems to be attempting to scowl, but the expression keeps sliding away, replaced by mirth. He grins, and his gums show, and Dean’s heart seems to shift in his chest. “I suppose I am. I’m always learning things about this body.” He says it carefully, enunciating, and Dean peers at the bottle. No wonder he’s so hazy already – half of the thing is gone already, and Dean knows for a  _fact_ that he didn’t have much before Cas sat down beside him. “Did you know,” he says, reaching for Dean, who is turned in his seat to look at him; his hand finds Dean’s elbow. “Did you know that when something hits you here, it hurts in a very unusual way?”

“Funny bone,” Dean says, understanding, as Castiel curls his hand around Dean’s elbow. “Yeah, I knew that,” he is smiling; encouraging Cas, maybe, to break the barriers of personal space, but he thinks they jumped that particular hurdle around when Dean’s alarm clock became Cas’ morning wood.

“Well, no one ever told  _me.”_ Cas says, and Dean just looks at him.

Sam has gone to bed; neither of them should be up this late, really, and certainly not getting drunk together. Everything they do these days is precarious; there is a barrier around Castiel, thick like molasses, that Dean is so worried he’ll get stuck in, but he continues to test it, anyway. He can yell at him over dropped socks, over toilet seats and wet towels and dirty dishes all he wants; but the fact remains that this messy piece of shit pulled him out of hell, and a whole lot of other things after, and it’s mostly Dean’s fault he’s still here at all.

He’s not really surprised when he takes the bottle from where he was holding it between his thighs and drinks for courage, rather than fun.

He tries not to speak, too nervous of his ability to express what he’s trying to actually say. This has been dragging on too, too fucking long, and he’s so ready for it to be over, in whatever way. Cas’ breath smells like whisky when he leans close.

“Cas,” he begins, but then he can’t remember what else he was going to say. He presses forward, close to Castiel’s face, and Cas lets him. Their noses push together.

Cas mutters something Dean doesn’t catch; Dean has the neck of the bottle in one hand, and he is dizzied when Cas takes it from him, turning his head to the side to swig again. That’s too much; this is getting a little stupid, he thinks, but when Cas leans down to put the bottle on the floor he returns his face to Dean’s; he presses their foreheads together.

Dean thinks maybe, just maybe, the silence has gone on long enough; that maybe Dean is allowed to kiss him; when Castiel says, quietly, “We should go to bed.”

Dean looks at him. He can barely focus on him, their faces are so close; Cas breathes the air he breathes, which is a little gross, actually. “What?”

“It’s late,” Cas replies, and shifts on the couch so his knee is pressed firmly against Dean’s thigh. Dean has absolutely zero chance of interpreting its intent.

“I – yeah, it’s late. Are you tired?”

Cas nods, the movement causing his nose to brush up and down against Dean’s. “Dean,” he says; quiet, apologetic, and Dean is grasping for meaning where there seems to be absolutely none.

“Uh,” he settles for, and he needn’t have bothered; Cas pushes him unceremoniously away, and squirms out from underneath him to stand, and walk out of the room.

Just like the mornings, Dean is left; adrift, half-hard, wondering what the fuck he ever did to throw his lot in with someone so fucking  _strange._ It is different this time, though, because he follows.

Cas walks fast, but he’s not a liar; when Dean gets to his room – staggering a little, but not a lot. He’s nowhere near the lightweight Cas seems to be – Cas is already in bed, beneath the covers, curled up.

Dean stands in the doorway for a moment before he gives up whatever the hell actually happened back there for lost. Sometimes, with Cas, he thinks he’ll just never fucking work it out.

He crosses the room, shucking his jeans on the way, and gets into bed beside Cas, leaving a good distance between them. The sleep he slips into is blurry, and indecipherable.

 He doesn’t know if it’s the booze, or the proximity, or what happened the night before, but when he wakes up he finds himself – predictably – pressed against Cas’ back, one arm slung over his chest. This is familiar; what is  _not_ is the fact that he’s fully hard, and pushing his hips against Cas’ ass in slow, sleep-addled little thrusts. He makes a noise, involuntarily; it’s wonderful to wake like this; wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, feeling Cas’ long, warm body against him. He has his chin hooked over Cas’ shoulder; they’re so close that Dean’s movements are more in principle than in practise, but apparently the principle is enough to make his cock leak all over the back of Cas’ pants, damply smearing where the cleft of his ass begins.  

Cas mumbles something, waking also.

It takes Dean about a second and a half of this warm, roiling sweetness before he realises what a fucking  _terrible_ thing it actually is, and flings himself away.

He breathes hard, and pulls his hands from Cas’ body. Mutters, “Oh my god, Cas, I’m so sorry,” in a garbled rush – but Cas doesn’t even roll over. He gropes behind him for Dean, hand finding his hip, his thigh – and he mumbles, “ _Dean,”_ in a tone akin to the little overwhelmed moan Dean himself just made.

Dean freezes, unmoving. Cas finally turns his head.

“Come back,” he says, as if Dean is stupid to do anything else, and Dean reasons that he probably would be.

He scoots close again, if with caution. “Cas?” he hopes to  _god_  this isn’t some fucking sleepwalking thing – that really would be the fucking icing.

“Dean,” Cas replies, like Dean is annoying him, and – yeah, he’s awake. Which begs further questions, but Dean is more than willing to just roll with it when Cas reaches back for him again.

He settles a hand over Dean’s waist, and tugs them close together again, so that Dean’s chest is flush against his back, once again; then he takes hold of Dean’s arm, and repositions it over his chest again, so they are well and truly fitted; Dean’s cock presses between them, no less interested.  

Dean never expected sexuality to come to Cas with ease, but the roll of his body – pushing back against Dean in a soft, shuddering wave – seems so natural it is almost hard to believe. Cas pulls him in tighter, hand gripping Dean’s hip; he tips his head back against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean realises that Cas has his free hand inside his pants, up-and-down motion unmistakeable. His hand splays wide over Cas’ chest, thumb brushing his nipple through his shirt.

It is too much; he figures he was close anyway, some ridiculous dream pushing him almost over the edge; but with Cas deliberately rubbing them together, he is lost entirely. He listens to Cas’ noise, echoes of the way he sounded over the roar of water in the shower room, but so much closer, so much baser, like this. He chokes what is almost a sob, and then Cas’ lower back is slick and wet.  

Cas makes a noise like the air has gone out of him, but only tries to pull him closer. He’s still going, hand working fast inside the front of his pants, the other holding Dean in place.

Dean doesn’t know why it occurs to him to ask  _now,_ but some twisted part of him has an inkling. He speaks over Cas’ shoulder, into his ear. “Did you know I was there?” he mumbles, words making him flush hotly, but coming out nonetheless. Cas makes a desperate noise in reply. “Cas?”

“Yes,” he says, unmistakeable, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s relieved, thrilled, or just ten other kinds of bewildered.

He tries again, “Did you – was it for me?”

Cas’ pulls on himself are more frantic; his hand squeezes Dean’s hip harder. “No,” he says softly, and Dean’s heart plummets, but he forges on.

“Did you like it, knowing I was there?”

Cas just says “Dean,” and scrabbles at his hip, and all the tension and fight washes out of him. He slumps back against Dean, eyes closed, and Dean fights the urge to chastise him for wiping his fucking jizz hand on the bedsheets. He mumbles something, and Dean slides his hand across Cas’ chest to rest against his side.

“Cas?”

“Probably,” Cas replies, finally coherent.

“Probably?”

“Mm. I would imagine it thrilled me a little, knowing you were there.”

As per usual, Cas gives an answer without actually saying anything of any worth at all. Dean lies against his back, and doesn’t know if he should pull away. “You feeling alright? Hungover?”

“I have a headache, so yes. You?”

“I’m fine.”

“So much for solidarity.”

Dean laughs despite himself – the absurdity is really only just starting to hit him. “Cas?” he mumbles, lost; filthy and warm.

But Cas is asleep again, head turned towards the pillow, clutching hand now lax on the rise of Dean’s waist. Dean waits a minute, two; gets Cas’ hideous snore directly against his face; and then pulls himself carefully away, rolling onto the colder side of the bed.

Cas flounders for a moment from the loss of warmth, hands searching; but then he simply curls in on himself, pulling his arms close to his chest. Dean endures another earth-shaking snore – really, he probably needs his sinuses looked at – and then lies still again to wait for real morning, body cooling slowly against the mattress, trying not to wonder what it all  _means._

 


End file.
